


You've Married an Icarus; He's Flown Too Close to the Sun

by LSPrincess



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Flying, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Project Icarus (Dirk Gently), Scars, Violent Transformation, Wingfic, temporary paralysis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-02 13:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSPrincess/pseuds/LSPrincess
Summary: Todd could do nothing but freeze in his tracks. And he could do nothing but stare. And he could do nothing but cry. Because that wasn’t Dirk — the man before him? That wasn’thisDirk. The man with a face flushed with rage, his hair messed up and hanging in his face, his lip slightly curled in a snarl — thatwasn’t Dirk.Because the man before him had dark eyes narrowed and menacing, his brow furrowed so deeply Todd was surprised it didn’t touch the floor, the muscles in his face twitching…And yellow eyes.-Title is a line from "Burn" from Hamilton.





	You've Married an Icarus; He's Flown Too Close to the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This became a _lot_ angstier than I intended it to be, wow. Also it wasn't supposed to be this long?? Or have chapters??? Or go in this direction at all?? If you read through this, I'm so proud of you.

Since meeting Dirk that fateful day that seemed so long ago (but in reality was closer to about four months ago), Todd had had a lot of questions for the eccentric, fast-talking detective that had insinuated himself into his life. The list had only grown the longer they’d spent time together, and Todd was thinking it was about time to ask them before he ran out of mental space to store them all.

 _When did you become a detective?_  
_WHY did you become a detective?_  
_How many jackets do you_ actually _have?_  
_Why does one human need that many jackets?_  
_What’s your favorite color?_  
_Why are you so scared of the Rowdy 3?_  
_Why are they called the Rowdy 3 when there are four members?_  
_Why don’t you like coffee?_  
_Why are you always so sharply dressed? Honestly, man, it’s a run-down Seattle neighborhood._  
_Where did you get this Corvette from?_  
_Do you even have a driver’s license?_  
_Why do you wear so many layers?_  
_Why are you so defensive about being called “psychic”?  
For such a flamboyant man, why did you find the pink band-aids distasteful?_

These were only a few of the more conversational questions you might find being uttered between two new and inexperienced high-school students going on their first date (which, to be perfectly honest, were they _really_ that differ—?)

He cut that _particular_ train of thought off before it could stray too far from the station. He and Dirk were friends, that’s all they’d ever been, that’s all they’d ever _be,_ and no matter how many nights Todd _possibly_ spent lying awake with tears pricking threateningly in the corners of his eyes when faced with this painful truth, its validity did not falter. He didn’t even know if Dirk _felt_ that way about him, or about… _men_ in general. Or romantic relationships with anybody! I mean, it’s not like the guy had _experience._ Todd figured one wasn’t faced with much love and affection when held prisoner in a government facility.

Despite their…relationship difficulties/complications, Todd assumed (or, rather, was almost _certain_ ) that Dirk wouldn't mind _too_ much if Todd actually got around to asking his deeper questions, the kind you’d asked once you’d been dating for a solid month or more.

 _When did Blackwing capture you?_  
Why _did Blackwing capture you?_  
_When did you escape?_  
How _did you escape?_  
_What did they do to you?  
What did that asshole — _Priest _— do to you?_

Plus literally any and _all_ questions regarding Dirk’s name — his _real_ name, and one Todd had only heard uttered once — Svlad Cjelli. Does it have a meaning? What is its origin? Why don’t you like it? If you were going to change your name from something as _weird_ as “Svlad Cjelli”, why did you change it to something almost _equally as weird_ like “Dirk Gently”?

But there was one question, one _specific_ question that had been nagging the back of his mind since the day it had occurred, since the incident that had spurred his interest had taken place. It had been a little over a month ago, and although _many_ more questions had been added to the list (What happened when I left you on the throne? What is that rainbow monster and why does it love you? How did you run into the Rowdy 3? How did you know where to find us? etc.), this one question had remained distinct, seeded in his brain, and now in the forefront of his mind. It wasn’t a very _important_ question, he figured, but God, now that he had remembered it, he thought he might _actually_ go insane if he didn’t get _some_ explanation. And, now that things had _finally_ settled down, Todd could ask it.

“How did you get up to the toy gun?”

Todd had fallen so deeply into his cauldron of swirling and boiling inquiries that he hadn’t taken into account how strange that question might seem coming out of the blue. And it certainly was strange, he realized with a slight blush and shifting in his seat.

It was just him and Dirk at the agency — Farah had gone to get them some basic groceries, considering they were still in the process of moving in (as if one couldn't tell by the mountains of cardboard boxes in the corners and the haphazard arrangement of what minimal furniture they had.) Dirk — who had been shot in the leg six weeks prior and was _still_ using it as an excuse to get out of things — had, naturally, avoided being dragged along. Todd had stayed simply because it seemed to be an unspoken agreement that Dirk could _not_ be left alone, lest their new agency be burnt down or shot up. So, with literally _nothing_ else to do, they’d made beverages (coffee for Todd and tea for Dirk) and sat down in the living area/waiting room, engaging briefly in small-talk before returning their gazes to their steaming cups of caffeine. It had been blissful, tranquil — the room was beautifully well-lit thanks to the large picture windows that bathed them in warm, white sunlight due to the angle at which the couch was situated. There seemed to be an array of benefits to this, one of which being: Dirk’s hair looked fucking _amazing_ when it was caught _just right_ by the light.

Apparently, so did his eyes ( _Christ_ how could one man be so beautiful?) because he was staring at Todd now, his tea cupped gently in his palms, his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment at…

At what?

"I beg your pardon?"

 _Oh,_ right. The question.

“At the Cardenas house,” Todd began, lifting his coffee but not taking a sip of it, “when we were in the barn. I was talking to Tina and then you started talking to us and I looked up and you were just — _up there._ On the upper level of the barn — the place where you found the toy gun. You know, the one that blew a huge hole in the wall? I was just…I was wondering how you got up there.”

Dirk scoffed and rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his tea, his once-wounded-but-now-mostly-healed-leg propped up on the coffee table in front of them. “I answered that question before, Todd. I climbed the thingy,” Dirk said with a derisive shake of his head as if he couldn't _believe_ Todd’s foolishness. It was pretty demeaning if he was being perfectly honest.

“Dirk, the thingy — the _ladder_ — was rotted. Every rung was broken. There was no _way_ you could've gotten up there by that piece of junk.”

Something flickered in Dirk’s eyes, something that almost seemed like _fear,_ and he turned back to his tea, lifting it to his lips once more for an unnecessarily long sip.

“Everything is connected, Todd,” he said, and for some reason, Todd was practically _repulsed_ by his friend’s signature motto. It felt like a diversion now, as if he were using it to evade the question. “That gun was a key element to the case. If the universe wants me to have it, the universe will _find ways for me to have it.”_

“So, what? The universe just _magically_ manifested some weird ethereal stairs for you?” Yeah, right.

“Todd—”

“I’m not an idiot, Dirk. I know when you’re lying to me.” He noticed the man on the other end of the couch wince at the mention of the word, and Todd felt a twinge of regret inside. It seemed to be a such an infamous word in his friend’s mind, an insult of the highest degree. A _lie._ Todd could only assume someone had lied to him over something that was important enough to break him (Amanda, is that you?), or he had lied to someone and suffered dire consequences. Either way, seeing the ripple of fear, insult, disbelief, and sadness in the Brit’s eyes always seemed to make Todd want to lie down and rethink his every decision.

“I’m not lying,” Dirk mumbled, suddenly _very_ interested in the small stack of coasters on the coffee table (something _neither_ of them was using.) “The universe _did_ want me to have the gun, Todd. If it hadn’t, I would have recognized that ladder as what it was — a lost cause.”

Todd leaned forward intently, setting his own drink aside for a moment. “And…what _did_ you recognize it as?”

Dirk shot Todd a quick glance, briefer than a blink, and a smug grin made the corner of his mouth twitch.

“A _challenge_.”

Those two words, those three syllables, those ten letters sparked something inside of Todd that set his whole body aflame. He wondered what else Dirk might recognize as a challenge — maybe some harmless flirting?

No. Pump the brakes. Cut the cord. Stop that train before it leaves, Todd. It’s not like you need _more_ heartbreak in your life.

“So…how _did_ you get up there, Dirk?” Todd prompted, scooting closer on the blue velvet couch. “You…You can talk to me, you know.”

Dirk let out a dry chuckle, scratching the back of his head. “You’re acting as if I've undergone some grand debacle, Todd. It’s not…it was just…” He trailed off into silence, his knuckles going white around his mug, and Todd wanted to scream with frustration. He almost had it! He almost got it out of him! If he could only repeat the question _without_ sounding pushy, then he would—

And now Dirk’s eyes were locked with his — Dirk’s beautiful blue-green eyes, glittering like minnows in the sun — and Todd couldn't move, couldn't breathe or blink or twitch or swallow because this was _it,_ he was going to get an answer!

Dirk swallowed uncomfortably, shifting in his seat, and he opened his mouth, his lips quivering and his eyes growing glassier with what Todd _hoped_ weren't tears, and he began to speak, began to form words, began to form an _answer_ — and there was a banging as the front door swung open, and Farah’s loud, authoritative voice demanding help with the groceries.

Just like that, the opportunity was snatched right from his fingers, and Dirk was hopping up and racing to help Farah, his “wounded” leg “suddenly feeling much better now, thanks!” Todd could only bite his cheek and slam his fists into the sofa cushion.

It wasn’t a very _important_ question — in fact, one of his _least_ important questions — but oh, how he might _actually_ go insane if he didn’t get _some_ explanation. Nobody scales a rotting, rungless ladder in an empty barn as silently and skillfully as Dirk supposedly had. Nobody.

Not even Svlad Cjelli.

Three more days, three more awkward encounters with Dirk, and yet still no answers to Todd’s plethora of questions, which were growing by the minute.

 _Why do you hate being accused of lying?_  
_Why are you avoiding me?_  
_Why do you have six different bottles of cologne?  
Why is Mona here?_

Yes, Mona, who Todd had recently discovered after _meticulously_ searching his memory (and browser history) for any intimation that he might have purchased a violet flower pot with tiny cacti painted on it.

When he came up with nothing, he turned to both of his friends and found himself faced with Farah’s befuddlement and Dirk’s haste to take the blame. Todd had concluded it was, in fact, Dirk’s elusive shape-shifting companion, and after confronting the hideously decorated pot and accusing it of being the refugee Mona Wilder, it had sprung to life and taken the form of a wiry woman with alabaster skin and ebony hair. Todd had to admit, she was quite pretty, but something about her was…off-putting. She was pretty in the sense that a wolf might be pretty, or an intricately designed weapon might be pretty. In contrast, she was also adorable in the way a harmless puppy might be adorable.

Todd was slowly growing more and more aware of how difficult the Blackwing Subjects were to read: The Rowdy 3 expressed nothing other than unbridled insanity, Dirk’s emotions were ever-changing, and Mona was a walking paradox.

Except for today. Today, Todd knew something was wrong, and — for the first time, possibly in his _life_ — he was able to read a subject’s expressions. This expression he was very familiar with, thanks to growing up in a family with a genetic nerve disease.

Mona Wilder was sad.

“What’s wrong?” Todd asked as a good friend would do. Mona hadn’t seemed _too_ terribly keen on befriending Todd right away, no matter _how_ insistent Dirk was upon the fact that he was a “good man” and “very kind.” In Todd’s opinion, that depended on who you asked.

Mona drew her knees up closer to her chest, rocking dangerously on the arm of the couch, and Todd had half the nerve to reach out and steady her, but he stopped himself. He had learned shortly after Dirk’s arrival at the Ridgely that the subjects were a little, shall we say, _unfamiliar_ with gestures of comfort, gratitude, congratulations, etcetera. The first time Todd had raised his hand to give Dirk a high-five, the poor guy had turned as white as a sheet and flinched away like a scared puppy; Todd had felt the sudden need to punch himself in the face, for reasons he wasn’t quite clear on.

Mona shot Todd a quick glance from behind her knees, then turned back to the window, sighing slightly. “Nothing,” she mumbled, her words muffled by her skin.

“Mona,” Todd began, scratching his brow and then raking his fingers through his hair, “I've spent enough time with Dirk to know that you guys aren't too… _keen_ on sharing your emotions, but I've also spent enough time with him to know that you guys are pretty trash at lying. You are, like…technically _living_ with us, and I just wanna make sure you’re, you know…comfortable here.”

The pale ball of a woman perked up at this, lifting her head up slightly to the point that Todd could see something in her chocolate eyes shift — she seemed to be warming up to him. Perhaps she was _more_ like a puppy than Todd had initially perceived.

“It has nothing to do with the agency, Todd, it’s really _really_ nice.”

“Well, then, what’s it got to do with?” he asked, scooting closer just a little. If Mona noticed, she didn’t say anything — and Todd was _quite_ sure she _had_ noticed.

She opened her mouth as if to reply, then thought against it, and cowered behind her knees again, turning back to the window. “I don’t know if I should say.”

“Has it got to do with Dirk?” Todd ventured, staring intensely at the side of Mona’s head. That is until he was staring intensely into her eyes, her turn so sudden he missed it when he blinked.

“How did you know?” she asked, her voice frail and small.

Todd was actually so shocked that he’d gotten that _right_ that it took him a little too long to reply.

“I just…he’s been avoiding me lately, and I figured—”

“Oh,” Mona said, cutting him off with a plaintive sigh. She propped her chin on her knees again and gazed out the window, her eyes distant and unfocused. “No, it has nothing to do with that.”

“Wh…but it _does_ have to do with Dirk, right?” Todd stammered, now at a loss. A walking paradox indeed.

Mona hesitated, but soon she was nodding, and Todd sighed, this time _obviously_ moving closer.

“Mona, Dirk’s my friend — like, my _best_ friend. I wanna know what’s going on, I want to understand—”

“Have you ever seen him naked?”

 _What?_ No, of course, he’d…well there was that…but that was because…they’d been in a death maze! They were electrocuted — it was _burning!_ But even _then_ the guy looked more like he was ready for a day of lounging by the pool than like he’d just stripped his clothes off.

“W- _What?”_ Todd gasped, finally managing to stop choking on his own spit. “No, I-I — It’s not like that, I mean we…Like, yeah, I’m a weird guy and all but I’m not like — _not that it’s a bad thing!_ That’s not what I’m saying! Actually one could say I’m a little—” Todd stopped when he noticed the alarmed look on Mona’s face as if she had _no_ idea just how unexpected and _inappropriate_ her question had been. And it _had_ been inappropriate! Dirk was his _friend,_ his _boss_ of sorts, he was more like…like a dog, really. A tall, lean dog, with bright blue eyes and the cutest smile and an unorthodox but strangely fitting sense of style…

Yeah, okay, he wasn’t like a dog.

“No,” Todd replied again, shortening his answer. “No, I haven't.”

“Not even just…shirtless?” she asked, the pitch of her voice and the little tilt of her head so sickeningly innocent that Todd thought he might _actually_ throw up. There was just something so very, _very_ _wrong_ about such an innocent and childlike person asking him if he’d seen his best friend naked before.

“Well, I mean…Kind of. But he had an undershirt on—”

“No,” Mona interrupted, looking away sharply. “No, that’s not good enough.”

“Look, Mona, I know you guys tend to have a really… _unique_ way of going about things, but I just _really_ don’t see what this has to do with you being sad,” Todd said, fighting the urge to dab the sweat from his hairline. He wasn’t quite sure when it had appeared, but now he was all too aware of it, the dampness of it tickling his skin; eventually, he would _have_ to wipe it away before he lost his mind.

“I can’t tell you,” she said quietly, and the way she spoke…it was the way a little kid would speak when they knew they were in trouble or they were trying not to cry. It was heart-wrenchingly pitiful. “I can’t tell you, Todd. You’ll have to see him shirtless to understand.”

Todd opened his mouth to see if he could drag any additional information out of her, but he knew the answer to that before his mind had even formed a reasonable question, so he clenched his jaw shut, redirecting his attention to his fingernails. They were getting pretty long, he should probably cut them soon. They already had a person that could become a dog or a cat or any other domestic (not exclusively, though — she could become a tiger if she wanted to, as she kept reminding them) animal that could scratch them, they didn’t need his barbaric self-care to add to that list.

Instead of going to find nail clippers, though, he lifted his fingers to his mouth and began to anxiously chew the ends of his nails off, sometimes tearing them a little too deep and pulling back to see a small bead of blood welling up from his cuticle. A shame, really. Now he’d have to go find the medical supplies somewhere amongst the avalanche of boxes that were only _slowly_ dissipating.

He thought he and Mona might just sit like that _forever_ — or, realistically, until someone came in to find one of them — when an idea popped into his head. He looked up from his jagged (but short!) nails at the girl still perched on the firm arm of the sofa, and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

“Do you think…anyone _else_ knows anything about it?” he asked, drying his slobbery and slightly bloody fingers on the rough fabric of his jeans. “Is there someone else I can talk to — someone more _comfortable?_ Like…Martin, for example? Or any of the Rowdy 3, for that matter?”

Mona looked concerned, then contemplative, then almost compliant before her expression flickered back to worry.

“Martin? Is that the big guy with the weird voice that Dirk’s always been afraid of?”

Shit. Well, when she put it like _that…_

“He may know,” she continued, scratching her head. “He certainly saw Dirk more than I did. Of course, I’m not quite sure what they _did_ —”

“But I _could_ ask him? Theoretically?” Todd said, partially aware that he sounded far too excited to be speaking of something “theoretically.”

“You can always ask questions, Todd,” Mona said, her voice softening to the sad and aloof tone it had before. “The problem is, you may not always get an answer.”

The subjects may tend to be unreadable, but Todd could give them one thing: they were certainly philosophical.

It hadn’t been _easy_ to arrange a meeting with Martin, but, then again, it hadn’t necessarily been _difficult._ All he’d needed to do was call Amanda, ask if Martin was there, and then have her tell him that the Rowdy 3 weren't very comfortable talking on the phone and that they’d be over there in an hour. See? Easy.

But oh, what a _lie_ it would be if Todd said he wasn’t scared shitless.

He had never been particularly _fond_ of the Rowdy 3, and the feeling appeared mutual. In fact, Todd doubted they’d ever been _fond_ of _anyone_ before Amanda. She was the first non-holistic-vampire (as far as Todd was aware) that they’d ever cared to befriend, and, as far as it seemed to Todd, be under the command of.

Dirk had never seemed very enthusiastic to be in their presence, either, so Todd could only hope that his friend/roommate/sort-of-boss would be out of the agency chasing some otherwise unforeseen holistic lead long enough for Todd to get this business with the Rowdies over with.

A cursory glance in the direction of the clock told Todd that he had called Amanda approximately fifty-five minutes ago. They should be here soon — they should, shouldn't they? Were they even coming? What if he didn’t get an answer? He _had_ to get an answer to something, _anything_ — he was going to lose his _mind!_

The roar of an engine outside tore him from his spiral of pessimism as violently as one might tear a child away from a weapon. The circumstances weren't all that different, he figured.

As he stood up from the couch, the purr of the van outside ceased, and was soon replaced with barking and howling — _humane_ barking and howling, but Todd had to admit they were getting better. One day, they may be so good at it they may even be able to scare the shit out of him.

He wasn’t looking forward to that day.

The pounding on the door ensued moments before Todd had reached for the knob, and was thankfully cut short when he promptly yanked it open. Although he had expected to be faced with the southerner and his intimidating height and bleach-blonde hair and cold eyes and scarred face and cracked glasses, it was still an unwelcome sight, to say the least. What was even more unwelcome was when he took a step forward (to which Todd responded by taking a precautionary step back) and invited himself into the agency.

“Drummer said you wanted to talk to me,” he growled in the sort of bone-chilling way only he was capable of. “Ya’d better make it worth my time, lil’ man, I don’t want to've brought my boys all the way out here for nothin’.”

“You didn’t…” Todd glanced out the open door at the idle van, noting the way it rocked and emitted howls and banging when his attention was on it. “You didn’t have to…bring them, you know? I-I just…had a question — in all honesty, I could've asked you on the phone but Amanda said you guys preferred to…you know…talk in person.”

Martin took slow steps forward, his head lowered and his shoulders hunched as if he were stalking prey, prowling around the room and letting his beastly eyes rove over the walls, the furniture, the windows and the floorboards and the boxes…Todd hadn’t felt an ounce of diffidence about the state of their newly purchased agency until now.

“Drummer knows us well,” he purred, disappearing around the corner into the living room. Todd took two tentative steps forward to follow him (to make sure he didn’t touch anything or wreck their new home like he had his old one), but practically leaped back when Martin reappeared, dragging his rough fingers over the wall, his knuckles scabbed and scarred and his skin caked in dirt. The sight of skin so filthy touching property that Todd owned made something inside of him recoil in disgust; perhaps he was becoming more like Dirk than he’d realized.

“What was your question?” he purred, tilting his head to the side like a dog admiring its treat before devouring it. “It’s about Icarus, ain't it? All your little questions are about Icarus — always. You think one’a these days you’d ask him yourself.”

“Some subjects are…sensitive,” Todd explained, noting with an air of self-hate how his voice shook with fear. “I don’t think he’d be willing to give me an answer.”

“Then you’re going behind his back,” Martin said with a condescending smirk. It was more of an accusation than a question, and that made Todd hate it (and himself) all the more.

“No, I’m — I-It’s not like that!” he stammered, hasty to defend himself. “He’s just…he can be really stubborn—”

“Stop whining,” Martin groaned, tilting his head back and removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What’s your question? Better make it quick before we hightail our asses outta here.”

Todd shot a nervous glance at the door and considered, for a brief moment, charging towards it and blocking it, just to keep Martin in here long enough to answer his pressing question. True, he was six inches shorter than the man, but hell, he was _very_ determined.

“Mona was sad earlier today,” Todd began, turning back to Martin but not meeting his eye. “She said—”

“Who’s Mona?” Martin’s gruff voice interrupted, and Todd looked up to see him quirk one dark eyebrow.

It hadn’t occurred to Todd that the Rowdy 3 might not be as acquainted with the brunette as Dirk was, especially considering they were some of the more _dangerous_ subjects, and therefore were securely detained, and their chances for meeting others were presumably slim to none.

“Oh, she…Project…Lamia? She was one of the other Blackwing subjects — she and Dirk are really close,” Todd explained, scratching the back of his neck.

When Dirk had given Todd a brief rundown of Mona’s story so he wasn’t _too_ uncomfortable welcoming a complete stranger into the house, he’d mentioned Mona’s subject name, which, to be frank, had shocked Todd stiff. He’d never seen Dirk so nonchalantly discuss anything relating to Blackwing, let alone go so far as to bring up the names of the _projects._

At the time, Todd hadn’t thought to ask about it, but now he found himself wondering what Dirk’s project name was. It shouldn't be that far of a leap, Todd figured as his mind raced back to every time Martin had referred to Dirk. What did he always say?

Icarus.

Project Icarus.

Priest’s words flooded Todd’s mind like water rushing through a sluice and suddenly, his growing desire for an answer overwhelmed his trepidation.

“Mona was really sad earlier today, which was weird because I've never seen her be anything other than naive and _aggravatingly_ ingenuous. When I asked her what was wrong, she asked me if I’d seen Dirk shirtless before.”

At this, Martin raised his eyebrows suggestively and stopped impatiently tapping his foot.

“Which I _haven’t,”_ Todd clarified — the foot tapping resumed. “I told her so, and she said that I would need to see him shirtless to understand why she was sad. I asked her why, but she wouldn't tell me. She said she _couldn't_ tell me.”

“And you think _I_ can?” Martin growled incredulously, narrowing his eyes and ceasing that _infernal_ tapping once more — for which Todd was _more_ than grateful.

“Well, I mean…I knew you wouldn't _care_ —”

“Listen, half pint, I don’t know a damn thing about Icarus anymore’n you do,” he growled, stalking forward and glaring down at Todd, to which Todd could respond by doing nothing else but holding his breath (maybe if he didn’t breathe, Martin wouldn't see him.)

A frankly terrifying smirk lit up the taller man’s beastly face, and he narrowed his eyes at Todd. “Well, I ‘spose I do know a _few_ things more — but they ain't none’a your business if Icarus ain't wantin' to tell ya,” he barked, and Todd nodded sharply (as if anything Martin had said warranted an affirmation.)

“So,” Todd began once he’d found his voice (albeit not much more than a raspy squeak), “you… _can’t_ …tell me anything about this?”

“Let’s get somethin’ straight, lil’ Dick: I ain't got the slightest idea what goes on in your crackpot agency. I don’t know Project Lamia, or why she was sad, or what’s up with Icarus, but if I did, it ain't never gonna be my place to tell you, understand?” He jabbed a finger into Todd’s chest to (rather _painfully_ ) punctuate his words. Todd flinched back from the unexpected force that filthy digit possessed, but was too terrified to break eye contact with Martin. “Now,” he growled, prowling forward until Todd was backed against the door, “I’d say your best bet would be to try ‘n walk in on Icarus shirtless, _or_ you can ask him yourself. Personally, I think the former would work better.”

Todd blinked once, twice, three times before he’d actually managed to process what Martin had said. “You…want me to be a peeping Todd?” he’d asked dubiously, unconsciously clawing at the paint of the door beneath his sweaty palms.

“If that’s the course of action you choose to take,” Martin replied, pulling away from Todd and taking a step back. Todd would have gasped for air in the newly opened space if it wouldn't have made him look ridiculous and weaker than he already did.

“You think Dirk would just… _let_ his guard down enough for me to walk in on him _changing?_ _Does_ he even change? I’m not even sure if the guy _sleeps_ —”

“It’s either that, or you ask him,” Martin snapped impatiently, replacing his broken glasses on his face. “Now, I don’t know much about your little _relationship_ with Icarus” — (Todd was tempted to explain it in his own defense) — “but I’m willin’ to bet it wouldn't be the kinda thing he’d discuss with just _anyone._ So, yeah, I’m suggestin’ you try to make a plan to barge into his room when he’s changing to catch him shirtless. Shouldn't be too hard to time that out — you do live together, after all.”

With that, Martin grabbed Todd’s shoulder, jerked him out of the way, and stormed out the door, leaving Todd confused, bruised, scared, and thrumming with adrenaline. He couldn't do much more than sink to the floor.

As it turned out, Martin was right, and it actually _wasn’t_ too hard for Todd to time out his plan — he’d simply suggested they go to a bar for a little relaxing drink and Dirk was racing off up the stairs to change into his “good outfit” (Todd wasn’t exactly sure what that was — in all honesty, the guy looked good in about _every_ outfit.)

Todd waited for a moment, practically counting every passing second, before making a dramatic spectacle of jumping to his feet and putting on his best _“Oh my God, I just realized something!”_ face.

“Oh my God, I just realized something!” he gasped, hoping his words would clarify the expression he was trying to pull if it wasn’t as clear as he wanted it to be. Farah blinked up at him, speechless, and was only able to call after him once he was halfway up the stairs.

“Wait, Todd, where are you going?” she shouted, leaning over the armrest of the couch.

“I have to tell Dirk something!” he called back, his heart already pounding against his chest the closer he drew to Dirk’s closed door.

 _“But, Todd, he’s—”_ Farah’s voice came, but it faded into an incomprehensible drone as Todd disappeared down the hall.

He slowed his rushing feet to make his approach less noticeable, took a deep breath, and pushed open Dirk’s door.

“Dirk, I just realized that I—”

That I…That I…

 _That I've never seen you shirtless before_ _—_ _Jesus_ fucking _Christ—_

He’d never seen him shirtless before until _now,_ that is, and God, Todd was _astounded_ by how _marvelously_ this plan had played out!

…Or he _would_ have been astounded, had he been able to feel anything besides the growing dread that was pooling in his stomach.

Dirk was standing by his bed, an undershirt hanging limply from his hands, staring at Todd with a concerned look on his face. _He_ was concerned for _Todd._ That was something Todd would have reacted to with a blush and a mumbled self-deprecating comment had he not been staring at the swath of bandaging binding Dirk’s chest from just below his collarbone to the bottom of his ribcage. It was a clean bandage, devoid of any blood — dry or fresh — but the sight of it sent Todd’s entire body into fight or flight, and he was strongly leaning towards the _fight_ of that equation. He wanted to _fight_ for Dirk, protect him, fight whoever did something to him that caused him to wrap his chest tight with bandages.

He wanted to kill them.

“Todd?” Dirk asked warily, tossing his undershirt onto the bed and approaching Todd with the sort of cautious gait one might take when approaching a startled deer. “Todd, what is it? Are you all right? What’s going on?”

Todd’s knees shook with the desire to back away from Dirk’s shirtless form as it drew nearer, but he couldn't move, and in hindsight, he was glad he hadn’t. The closer Dirk got, the better Todd could make out the details and contours of his body, the faint muscle distinction in his arms and stomach, the slight jut of his collarbone and hips and ribs, and the freckles on his shoulders and neck and cheeks and — _and he was too close._

“Todd, what is it? Has something happened?”

Todd was ultimately able to tear his gaze away from the bandaging on Dirk’s chest to look up into his eyes, and holy shit was he _too. Close._ So close, in fact, that Todd could feel his breath against his cheek.

“No, I was just…I was just coming to say…that I…” Shit, he probably should have planned out this excuse sooner.

Dirk frowned and tilted his head to the side, reaching up just a _little_ too confidently and running his fingers through the wisps of hair that were falling into Todd’s face.

“If we _are_ going to a bar, Todd, I’d recommend doing something with your hair,” he said, humming thoughtfully, then letting his arm fall and beaming innocently, as if he hadn’t realized the fucking _effect_ that had taken on Todd.

“Uh, no, yeah, we’re…yeah, we’re going to the bar,” Todd mumbled, not realizing until then that he hadn’t actually _planned_ on going to a bar — he’d just wanted something that would undoubtedly make Dirk want to change, and boy howdy, had it _worked._

“Good!” Dirk said with an enthusiastic smile, and he sauntered back toward the bed, snatching his undershirt from where it lay on the comforter and shaking it out until he could discern the front from the back.

“Uh…Dirk?”

“Yes, Todd?”

“Why is your chest bandaged?”

Dirk started and whipped around so fast that it blew his hair into disarray. Todd could see how pale he looked, how wide and glassy his stare was, how his knuckles were going white as he gripped the undershirt in his hands.

“W-What?!”

“Your chest,” Todd said cautiously, gesturing to Dirk’s still half-nude form (not really half-nude, Todd digressed, more sort of…a quarter-nude.) “Why is it bandaged?”

Dirk looked down at himself in abject horror, and Todd could _see_ the shaky breath he drew in. “My—what—I don’t…oh, _bloody—”_ he stammered, jerking the undershirt over his head and messing his hair up even more so that by the time he had the shirt laid smoothly over his abdomen, it was sticking up in about four different directions. “I-I’m afraid I don’t…know what you’re talking about, Todd,” he mumbled, clearing his throat and pawing fiercely at the air for something he could lean against as he forced a nonchalant expression to his face — Todd thought it looked quite like a shirt that was too big in the sense that it didn’t quite fit his normally _very_ expressive features and personality.

“Dirk,” Todd said quietly, stepping past the threshold into the room. Dirk jerked away from him, scrambling around the corner of his mattress, and something like pain pulsed in Todd’s chest. “Dirk I was just…You’re my friend, so seeing you…It’s kind of an alarming sight.”

“What is?” Dirk asked, his voice unnaturally and unconvincingly high. “You've seen me like this before, Todd,” Dirk said, gesturing at the undershirt. “It’s not like I’m arse naked, or anything—”

 _“Dirk,”_ Todd pressed, taking another step forward. This time, Dirk only flinched, but his face fell and dropped its composed facade.

“You…You weren't supposed to know,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze.

“Know what? Dirk, did someone… _hurt_ you? Was it those Blackwing freaks? I swear to God, Dirk, I’ll get into Farah’s arsenal and _personally—”_

“No, it’s…it’s nothing like that,” Dirk assured, waving his hands dismissively. “It’s…well, it’s…”

Dirk seemed to be looking at everything _except_ Todd, worrying the hem of his shirt between his fingers and biting his lip.

Todd, against his better judgement, took another hesitant step forward, then proceeded all the way in, stopping in front of Dirk and studying his lowered face.

“Dirk,” Todd began again, softer this time. “You can tell me. I’m…I’m your _friend,_ Dirk,” he said with a slight smile, making sure to put extra stress on the word that had such a positive effect on Dirk in the past. Surprisingly, it didn’t do much more than earn Todd a weak half-smile this time.

“Thank you, Todd. I…You’re a good friend,” he said, finally pulling his eyes from the wall to meet Todd’s intent stare. “A _very_ good friend — the best friend, but I…No one knows, it’s…”

“Dirk,” Todd whispered, taking another step forward — at this rate, he was going to grow tired of saying the poor guy’s name before he ever got an answer. “What… _is_ it?”

Dirk slowly dragged his gaze up Todd’s face again, his lip quivering and his eyes dark and saturated with a look Todd wasn’t very familiar with — at least, he wasn’t familiar with seeing it in _Dirk’s_ eyes.

“Scars,” Dirk finally said, his voice no more than a whisper, and Todd thought he might actually fall over.

“Scars?” he repeated, making sure he’d heard Dirk right (and hoping to _God_ he hadn’t.) Scars weren't good. Scars meant wounds, which meant pain, which meant blood, which meant _someone had hurt Dirk._ Todd was already combing through his mental catalogue of all the treats Farah’s personal arsenal had to offer, trying to imagine just the sort of effect it would have on those puffed up government _pricks—_

 _“My_ scars,” Dirk said cryptically, and Todd was blinking himself out of his violent thoughts to meet Dirk’s eyes again, hoping he might find an answer amidst those rippling oceans of sadness.

“No, Dirk, they’re not _yours,_ I mean…they’re not _you,_ you aren't defined by what other people did to you, what other people did to _hurt_ you—”

“No, Todd,” Dirk interrupted, his face darkening with impatience. “They _are_ me. They’re a part of me.”

Dear God, this poor, _sweet_ man, this good, _innocent_ man — oh, Todd wanted to wrap him up and hold him and never let him go, wanted to write a goddamn _book_ about how everything that happened to Dirk wasn’t his fault and didn’t confine him to a certain way of life—

But when Todd began to protest again, Dirk reached down and tugged the undershirt over his head again, and Todd was presented with those damned, heinous bandages, and he wanted to _scream_ —

But Todd _couldn't_ scream because Dirk was reaching up and peeling the bandage apart, and suddenly it was unraveling and falling from Dirk’s chest, and suddenly it was off and _suddenly Dirk was actually shirtless oh my God someone please get Todd a fucking defibrillator_ —

There were no scars in sight. Everything Todd had been preparing himself for — ugly, sinuous claw marks, a bisecting surgery scar, burns, cuts, brands, lashes, _anything_ — wasn’t there. It was just Dirk. Glorious, pale, _shirtless_ and unexpectedly sturdy Dirk and his bare chest, a chest that was bare because he was _shirtless,_ and it all kept circling back to that one line of thought, that one word, and Todd was so distracted by that word and that thought that he hadn’t noticed that Dirk was turning around until he couldn't see his chest anymore and instead…he could see _them._

Scars.

If you looked that word up on the Internet, _this_ is the picture you’d get. A picture of Dirk’s beautiful back (Todd was slowly coming to terms with the fact that _every_ part of this man was beautiful), his pale back, his freckled and generally unmarred back, except right in the middle — right between his shoulder blades — were two _enormous_ scars. At least seven inches long, Todd estimated, and about two inches across the middle, where they were the thickest. They were light and perfectly healed, but still absolutely _sickening_ to see, jagged along the edges and horribly rough throughout, with strange, fleshy ridges and dips and bumps…

Todd’s own back ached at the sight of them.

“Holy fucking — holy _shit,_ mother _fucker_ — Jesus…goddamn… _fuck,_ Dirk!” For once, in Todd’s strangely eventful life, he was presented with a situation to which he could not come up with the appropriate swear word to respond with. And his vocabulary in that area was unbelievably _broad._

Dirk’s only response was a shaky, “I’m sorry,” and Todd wanted to _cry._

And he did.

“Sorry?” he barked, lifting his hands and reaching forward, then pulling them back, then taking a deep breath and reaching forward again. “No, Dirk, you don’t…There’s nothing to be sorry—”

 _For._ But that was drowned out when Dirk screamed, _“No!”_ and spun around faster than Todd had ever seen anyone move, catching Todd’s wrists and gripping them until his knuckles were white.

“No,” he repeated, quieter this time, and Todd wasn’t _quite_ sure how to react to… _that._ To that look on Dirk’s face, to Dirk’s face in _general,_ his overwhelmingly expressive face as it flickered through emotions: an ass-kicking cocktail of rage and fear, slowly drained and then replaced with ipecac, garnished with pain and remorse. “Please, don’t…touch.”

Don’t touch. Right. Todd could…Todd could do that. Don’t touch him — don’t touch the scars. Right. Of course! That was simple. That was easy. That was manageable.

…

No, it wasn’t.

“Why?” Todd asked quietly, his supposed-to-be-slow-and-calculated breathing breaking around a stifled sob. “Do they…hurt?”

Idiot. Dumb question. Scars don’t hurt.

“...Yes,” Dirk breathed after a long pause, lowering his eyes.

Well…

 _Normal_ scars don’t hurt.

“W…Why?” Todd asked again, his voice stronger this time. It seemed the only thing he could do at this moment was question _everything,_ question Dirk’s scars, question the pain, question their creation, question his sexuality. It was a constant, brain-rattling stream of _why, why, why._

Dirk only shrugged. “I don’t know, Todd. I guess…What is it people say? Old wounds never fully heal?”

It was something like that.

“And…how old… _are_ they?” Todd asked, hesitantly lifting a hand again — if Dirk noticed, he didn’t show it.

“As old as me.” Todd’s hand froze in its gradual upward trek, but after a brief moment of processing Dirk’s words through erratic blinks, he began moving it again.

“You got them when you were…a…child?”

Dirk met Todd’s gaze, and the look in those beautiful eyes killed him — Todd was sure of it. Sure that it’d shot him through the heart, sure that it’d suffocated him, sure that he’d drowned in them and he was pale, adrift, and quite, _quite_ dead. It was a wonder he didn’t collapse.

“No, I've…It's not that simple, Todd,” Dirk said, his plaintive tone morphing into something tighter, something darker, something more distant and defensive. “You wouldn't understand — _no one_ understands it, Todd!”

“Well, maybe they weren't listening!” Todd insisted, following Dirk desperately as he turned and scooped his bandaging off of the floor. “But—But I’m _here,_ Dirk! I’ll listen — I’m _here—”_

“No one is _ever_ here!” Dirk cried, whipping around and giving Todd the most bone-chilling, blood-curdling glare ever, and Todd could do nothing but freeze in his tracks. And he could do nothing but stare. And he could do nothing but cry. Because that wasn’t Dirk — the man before him? That wasn’t _his_ Dirk. The man with a face flushed with rage (the tips of his ears bordering on an almost purple shade), his hair messed up and hanging in his face, his lip slightly curled in a snarl, his yellow eyes dark and cold and—

Wait.

Wait.

Just…

_Wait._

Todd blinked, a sort of sudden twitch, and his eyes reopened involuntarily before he was quite ready to process what was before him. So he closed them again.

And held them closed.

And counted to three.

And opened them again.

No, that wasn’t Dirk. The man before him? That wasn’t _his_ Dirk. The man with a face flushed with rage, his hair messed up and hanging in his face, his lip slightly curled in a snarl — that _wasn’t_ Dirk. Because the man before him had dark eyes narrowed and menacing, his brow furrowed so deeply Todd was surprised it didn’t touch the floor, the muscles in his face twitching…

And yellow eyes.

Eyes as yellow as the sun — except not quite. When gazing up at the sun, one feels a small wave of happiness, a flood of warmth; they really have no choice. When gazing upon these eyes, Todd felt ice cold to the soles of his feet, a glacier burrowing its icy, jagged features into his stomach, and every hair on his body stood up — it really wouldn't have surprised him if the hair on his _head_ stood up.

And he could do nothing but stare. And he could do nothing but cry.

_“Todd? Dirk?”_

And he could do nothing but freeze. And he could do nothing but stare.

_“Dirk, I swear, if Todd did anything…”_

And he could do nothing but cry. And he couldn't breathe — oh, _God,_ he couldn't _breathe_ —

_“...wrong…”_

“Farah?”

— _oh God, he could breathe._

Todd’s knees buckled beneath him and he crashed to the floor, gripping his chest and gasping for air, tears spilling freely from his eyes because his chest was on _fire_ and his throat was _raw_ and his joints were _aching_ and the _last_ thing he wanted to do was focus all of his energy on _not crying,_ because that seemed to be a perfectly warranted reaction given the previous events, but oh God, he could _breathe_ again, and he never wanted to stop, never wanted to stop sucking in lungful after lungful of air because he may never get to again!

“Todd? Todd, what is it? Are you okay? Are you having an attack? Todd? _Todd?”_

And he could do nothing but sit there. And he could do nothing but cry. And he could do nothing but let out a choked sob and scramble away from Dirk when he knelt in front of him, tilting his chin up with three fingers so that Todd would meet his eyes.

His _blue_ eyes. His _worried_ eyes. His… _hurt_ eyes.

“Todd, it’s me — it’s Dirk, it’s _me—”_

“What the hell happened?” Farah spat, crouching next to Todd and tentatively touching his shoulder.

Farah…

_Farah._

Farah could protect him — Farah _would_ protect him!

So he could do nothing but cry and scream and cling to Farah’s shirt like a terrified child, pulling his knees up to his aching chest and _screaming_ and _crying_ and _clinging_ and _gasping_ for air, and he couldn't meet Dirk’s eyes because he knew what he would see there.

Pain.

Worry.

Confusion.

_Terror._

And only as Farah was telling Dirk to get Todd a glass of water and the detective went dashing out of the room did Todd realize that the relentless stream of _why, why, why_ that had been plaguing his conscience was replaced with something far darker.

Something he wasn’t too proud of.

_He’s the devil, he’s the devil, he’s the devil._

**Author's Note:**

> Things will (kind of) get better, I _promise_


End file.
